HIGH SCHOOL STOMP
September 1965 — my first year at Rosamond High School. I knew most of the faces; we’d all grown up together. But the air felt different that year. Maybe it was because I’d stayed at Antelope Valley High while the others returned early to the temporary trailers at Rosamond. Some folks saw me as a “traitor.” Still, no one could question my football game — I could hit hard and play harder.
Rosamond was a tiny town without McDonald’s or movie theaters like Lancaster had. But we had Foster’s Freeze, and that was enough for me, Reggie, Ricky, Lynn, and Rusty to make our stand. I played ball at AV as a guard and linebacker, but music was tugging at me, too.
I went looking for a band. The first recruit was Terry Lambright, a wizard on his twelve-string Rickenbacker. Then came Buddy Wampler on bass — good guy, but eventually he confessed he was deaf in one ear. No wonder we kept drifting off-key.
So I taught myself bass. Borrowed one from my friend Paul Martinkovic, who kindly stuck little note stickers on the frets for me. I practiced late into the night, running my Webcor tape recorder as an amp and playing along with the radio. The first song I learned was “Young Girl” by Gary Puckett & The Union Gap — singing and playing it at the same time felt like flying.
When football season ended, I dove headfirst into music. Ricky Perrine joined on drums, and soon we had a singer, Rollyn Zink. Meanwhile, Merrell was working part-time at Cliff Rohr’s Music Box — the local hangout where musicians lived and breathed sound. Cliff had a tiny studio in the back, and magic happened there daily.
One day, we listened to Captain Beefheart’s first acetate — “Who Do You Think You’re Fooling” backed with “Diddy Wah Diddy.” Not long after, I tagged along as a roadie when the Magic Band played the Hollywood Teen Fair at the Palladium. I even sang one song. That was the day Herb Alpert and Jerry Moss signed the band to their new A&M Records label.
Through those connections, I met producer Rick Jarrard, who was working with Jefferson Airplane. He didn’t find any of my home recordings fit for them — but he thought I had something of my own. Before long, I was sitting in a South Hollywood garage with Herb Alpert and Jerry Moss, talking about songs, futures, and dreams. Alpert told me to go home and write — all kinds of songs, for myself and others. So I did.
A&M was breaking out with “The Lonely Bull,” and soon Captain Beefheart hit the charts with “Diddy Wah Diddy.” Back in Rosamond, our little world buzzed. Merrell’s record “Can We Get Along” was climbing, and Beefheart’s single hit No. 1 locally. Everyone was hanging at the Music Box when we heard it announced.
Meanwhile, my own single took two years to release — a James Brown-style tune that never quite landed. It felt like a formality between A&M and RCA. KUTY played it once, and that was enough for me. I tossed most of the copies into the desert like flying saucers — not realizing I’d be buying one back decades later for my daughter.
Rosamond soon had two bands — Lynn Henson’s Sunny Motion and our group, Purple Olive. We played community parks, scout events, anywhere that would have us. Our demo, “Journey to the Center of Your Heart,” even got local airplay. When Lynn later joined us, the sound took off — he gave us the punch we needed.
Graduation came fast. I went on to Antelope Valley College, juggling football, music, and now journalism. I found myself co-editing the school paper and running publicity for the student council. The school was broke — $25,000 in debt — and morale was flat. My big test was reviving the Christmas Ball, a project every previous class had failed.
But I had an idea: music. I rallied the Inter-Club Council, called in favors from local bands (including Bobby “O” Ormsby’s Boobla), and got Captain Don Imus at KUTY to plug our dance on-air. We opened the doors to all high school and college students with valid ID cards — free entry.
That night, we won our homecoming game and packed the place. The crowd was wild. We raised over $5,000 in a single evening — enough to erase debt and then some. By semester’s end, the student body was in the black, and our events were drawing crowds from across the Antelope Valley.
The buzz spread. Other schools asked how we did it. Networking became the new game. And as for me — I was hooked on making things happen. Music, journalism, promotion — it all flowed together.
My friends Don and Richie Podolor were now producing acts like Three Dog Night. The world was changing fast, and the valley kids were right there in it — chasing sound, chasing rhythm, chasing dreams.
And for a moment in time, it felt like Rosamond was the center of the universe.
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